As They Seem
by Jadea
Summary: No matter the relationship, things are not always as they seem
1. Default Chapter

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: Ugh, I'm running out of creative ways to say, "Not mine, never mine."   
  


Synopsis: A nice, cryptic, "Things are not always what they seem."   
  


Warnings: Slash. Didn't catch that? Slash. This has very little plot--although it does have a bit--and quite a lot of sex. Actually, the sex kind of *is* the plot . . .   
  


Rating: R. Seems all my Slashes are rated R. Another one that just refused to leave me alone.   
  


******************************************   
  


One hour.   
  


He had exactly . . . 56 minutes, 17 seconds until the Prefect meeting was over.   
  


With swift, assertive strides he raced up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower, listening to the echo of his footsteps as he climbed, pausing only when he was face to face with the pale faced, mistletoe-adorned portrait of the lightly dozing Fat Lady.   
  


"Cannons rule.".   
  


They'd changed the passwords just yesterday; he'd had to find out the new one from an awe-struck First year who reminded him unpleasantly of Colin Creevy.   
  


Lazily, a thick brown eyebrow of watercolor rose, just enough for a quick flash of recognition to show, and the portrait swung wide, revealing the hidden entrance to Gryffindor Tower. Even as the picture swung shut behind him he heard snores and knew that the Fat Lady had fallen asleep again.   
  


The Common room was almost completely deserted, just as he'd anticipated. It was December 23rd, and the vast majority of Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherins had fled Hogwarts for the holidays, heading for homes where they would be fed, gushed over, interrogated and nagged within an inch of their life.   
  


He had not gone home, not that he'd been invited. What would be the point?   
  


The one Gryffindor who had elected to remain at Hogwarts over the winter holidays and was not currently at the Prefects meeting lay sprawled across the couch nearest the fire, fast asleep.   
  


Shadows flickered across the walls, playing on the mahagony wood, the stone walls, the crimson carpet. And the fiery hair of the boy sprawled across the too-small couch.   
  


54 minutes, 28 seconds   
  


He wished he could simply stand there and watch the fire paint those glints of copper and molten gold into that crimson hair, but he had less then an hour, now. It was not very often he got to see that face so serene, so calm. But that was not why he'd skipped out on the Prefects meeting.   
  


He hadn't done this so he could see the way Ron looked when he was feeling *calm.*   
  


He wanted to see that sinful mouth gasping for breath, panting to get air into those lungs. He wanted to see that crimson hair tousled and mussed, to see those blue eyes haze over with heat and pleasure.   
  


He wanted to feel that tall, firm body writhing against his . . .   
  


His lips ghosted over the other boys face, tracing a patch of freckles as they sprinkled down from Ron's brow to the curve of his neck, feeling the slow, steady gusts of air as Ron breathed. He inhaled with a slow, contented breath, hovering over the red heads mouth, teasing himself.   
  


Enough.   
  


Quidditch-calloused hands slid up the other boy's neck to tangle in his red hair, and he held the other boy firmly as he pressed his mouth to Ron's.   
  


Soft murmurs, breathed into his own mouth. He felt the body beneath his jerk in surprise, both at being woken and the method of such, before blue eyes flickered open, and he saw recognition and desire in their depths. One word, he felt its shape form against his own lips:   
  


"Harry . . . "   
  


This kiss was fiercer, harder, cutting off the words he didn't want to hear. The other boy lay pinned under him and he took advantage, clutching the worn, hand me down robes, pressing the red head into the couch, tongue slipping in and out of the warm, wet mouth.   
  


"Ron . . . want you . . . now."   
  


A hectic flush of color in those freckled cheeks greeted his words and he pressed foward, slipping his shaking hands under the other boys robes, smoothing over skin he wanted--needed--to touch.   
  


"Harry--Oh, God, Harry--Not, not here--up-upstairs."   
  


Reluctantly, he slid off the warm body under him, savoring every moment, every bit of friction, every gasp, and tugged the other boy to his feet, before allowing Ron to lead him, hand in hand, across the Common Room and up the stairs.   
  


Endless flights of stairs seemed to conspire against him and he fought the urge to simply press the other boy on his back against the cold stone. Finally, after an interminable wait, they stood outside a mahogany door with a plaque that read:   
  


Gryffindor 7th year boys.   
  


One of his hands snaked out, wrapping itself around the taller boy's waist even as the other one twisted the silver knob, pressing Ron backwards against the heavy wooden door and into the room.   
  


He was lost in a frenzy of sensation, oblivious to everything except the red headed boy moaning against his mouth, and all the things he wanted to do to him. Hands clutching red hair, mouth moving against Ron's, and he backed the other boy across the room, shoving him on his back on the nearest available bed.   
  


Oh, yes. A haze of heat had descended over those blue eyes, and they gazed up at him, desperate for more. A teasing smile tugged at the corners of that irresistible mouth . . .   
  


"Neville's bed, Harry? What's gotten into you?"   
  


He pounced, hands wandering freely over the other boys body. They tangled together, legs and arms. He slipped his hands in the other boys hair, running his fingers through the soft strands, tugging on them almost painfully, tossing black bangs out of his eyes with a jerk of his head. He wasn't used to his hair being in his eyes, and it annoyed him. He wanted an unobstructed view of Ron as the other boy lay beneath him, half naked and gasping.   
  


42 minutes, 39 seconds.   
  


His hands tugged at the other boys robes, stripping the old material off as quickly as possible. Ron responded enthusiastically and soon a feast of pale skin lay beneath him, all his for the taking.   
  


This . . . this was what he wanted. All he had ever wanted. Lying beneath him, clutching his shoulders in a bruising grip, shuddering with pleasure at his movements.   
  


"Wow, Oh, Wow . . . I dunno why--why you l-left the Prefect meeting, but I'm glad as hell you did . . . oh, yes--Oh, *Wow* . . . "   
  


He felt the fingers on his shoulders clench painfully, heard the soft whimpers, gasps for air as he mouthed the other boy's neck, sucking hot blood to the surface before biting hard enough to leave a bruise.   
  


*That* would lead to some interesting questions later.   
  


Insatiably, his mouth moved downwards, leaving a trail of heat and moisture in its wake. Ron was beyond thought now, trying only to bring him nearer, and closer, and in. . . .   
  


Warmth opened up before him and he drove himself into it, savoring the look of dazed pleasure on his red heads face, the way crimson bloomed in those cheeks, the soft, gasping whimpers that slipped out from that innocently foul mouth.   
  


"Ha--Harry, Oh, Har--"   
  


Unable to stand the words anymore he leaned foward, lips parting Ron's, slipping his tongue inside the other boys mouth. He didn't want to hear Ron speak; he wanted him helpless, utterly incoherent, capable only of moaning, frenzied cries . . .   
  


Pleasure broke over him in a wave and he cried out, feeling the boy beneath him do the same.   
  


Gasping for breath, he fell foward, clutching the boy beneath him. Half of his time was gone.   
  


Rational thought had abandoned him, all he knew was the pleasure of the body joined with his . . .   
  


Another wave of pleasure, of scorching heat. He stilled his movements, relishing the sight of the boy spread out before him. Such pleasure, affection, in that expressive face.   
  


Such total trust.   
  


"I love this."   
  


He hadn't meant to speak, the only sounds for minutes now had been those of pleasure. His hopes that Ron had been too distracted to hear him were dashed when a pair of blue eyes slipped open and fixed their gaze on his own green ones.   
  


"L-Love what?"   
  


Such a hoarse tone to that usually playful voice.   
  


"You. The way you give yourself, totally . . . "   
  


A surprised, pleased smile began to form on the other boy's face and he began to move again, making Ron gasp.   
  


//I love this. The way you give yourself, totally. Right now, you are utterly, completely, mine, and no one else's . . . //   
  


The rest of his time passed in a haze of pleasure; of skin and sweat and sweet, hot pressure.   
  


With less then five minutes left he reluctantly pulled away, slipping out from beneath Ron's arm and dressing as quickly and silently as possible, leaving a sleeping, well-ravished red head behind in Neville Longbottom's now rather rumpled bed.   
  


3 minutes, 2 seconds   
  


Shit.   
  


He had taken too long.   
  


Desperately wishing for an invisibility cloak, he sprinted down the seemingly endless stairs of Gryffindor Tower. He couldn't help reflecting that going up the stairs, with a very shaggable red head leading the way, had been far more enjoyable then racing down them alone, desperate to get out of the Gryffindor before he ran out of time--   
  


Gasping for breath, his feet pounded on the floor of the Common Room floor, fingers reaching out, ready to open the Portrait hole when it swung open . . .   
  


And the last person in the world he wanted to see entered.   
  


The prefect meeting must have let out early.   
  


//Potter//   
  


The Gryffindor prefect jerked, green eyes widening with total shock when he saw--himself-- standing not three feet away. Taking in his rumpled black hair, his messy, wrinkled robes. His own jade-green eyes staring at him from underneath his own black rimmed glasses.   
  


Quicker then he would have believed possible Potter was pointing his damn phoenix-feather wand at him, voice tight and unbelievably dangerous. He didn't even have time to draw his own wand.   
  


"Who. The *Hell* Are. You?"   
  


Unable to restrain it, a small smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. With one graceful movement he smoothed the untidy black hair away from his brow, brushing the fringe out of his eyes.   
  


He hated untidy hair.   
  


"Me? Isn't it obvious, Harry? I'm your long lost identical twin brother, Herbie!"   
  


Potters hand clenched, white knuckled around his wand as recognition flashed through his eyes.   
  


"Malfoy."   
  


17 seconds.   
  


A lock of black hair tumbled into his eyes. He squinted, seeing the threads of silvery gold glinting in the dark strands, spreading through them like a stain.   
  


"What the fuck are you doing, Malfoy?"   
  


Potter still had his eyes trained on him, an inch away from hexing him.   
  


The Portrait hole was still ajar. He could get out quick enough, if he could just distract Potter, get a hand on his own wand . . .   
  


"Oh, I just borrowed something of yours and used it for a while, Potter. It's ok, though. You can have it back now, I'm done . . . "   
  


Comprehension dawned on the other boy's face, eyes flickering away from him to study the staircase leading up to the boy's dormitories . . .   
  


Moving with a speed that impressed even himself, he cast a smoke charm, blocking himself from Potter's view long enough to slip through the portrait hole, knowing The Boy Who Lived would go upstairs to check on his best friend--his best *mate,* lover of over a year, thereby giving him plenty of time to make his way safely back to the Slytherin dorms. He hurried down the hall, ignoring the shriek of surprise as the Fat Lady truly recognized him.   
  


"D-Draco Malfoy!"   
  


His hour was up.   
  


The Polyjuice Potion had completely worn off.   
  
  
  


***************************************   
  
  
  


As you can tell, this is a deep, heartfelt fic. (Snorts) If anyone has already used this idea, I swear I didn't borrow it from you . . . I've never read a fic where Polyjuice potion was used for the same reasons as Draco's . . . naughty, naughty boy. Anyway, tell me what you think, if ya would.   
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  



	2. Why Slytherin's Skip Prefect Meetings

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer, Summary, etc etc. : See Chapter 1   
  


Notes: Thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter 1. I didn't intend on doing any more, but *yeesh* the idea of Harry's reaction wouldn't leave me alone. Oh, and this is not at all related to the "Deal With The Devil" universe. I can see the parallels, though!   
  
  
  


*******************************************   
  


". . .order! We have much to discuss today and the time will go by much faster if we remain polite and speak in order!"   
  


Lips pursed, eyes narrowed, Minerva McGonnagal swept the meeting room with her eyes, pinning each house prefect to the wall with what Ron referred to as her "Death Glare" gaze.   
  


Harry sighed, absent mindedly brushing his black bangs out of his eyes. The "Death Glare" had long ago lost any affect on him, although it did seem to affect Hannah Abbot, the Hufflepuff prefect, rather considerably. The red headed girl shifted uncomfortably in her seat; torn between pulling up closer to the table and putting her scrolls down, or staying pushed back and avoiding getting any closer to McGonnagal.   
  


Ignoring Hannah's indecision and McGonnagals glare, Harry resumed scribbling on his own parchment.   
  
  
  


Dear Sirius,   
  


No, my scar hasn't been hurting recently. Hello and Merry Christmas to you, too. This year it's just Ron and me in the Gryffindor dorms; Hermione went home, as this Christmas is her parents 20th wedding anniversary. Which means by the time everyone comes back I'll have played enough chess to qualify as a master--   
  
  
  


Harry smiled ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting up just noticeably. He and Ron had been using the term "playing chess" to refer to a far more. . .entertaining and, well, *physical* activity, for over a year now. And no, he wasn't talking about Quidditch.   
  


He personally vastly preferred the new way of "playing chess" to the previous, non-physical kind. In this version, they *both* won. Every time.   
  


. . .Ms. Abbot? Are you ready to present your report?"   
  


The Hufflepuff prefect beside him started with surprise; Harry tore his eyes away from the parchment and his thoughts away from Ron. Something was wrong. . .   
  


Wide eyed, the girl looked at McGonnagal, startled. "But. . .it's not my turn, Professor. The Slytherin prefect, Draco Malfoy, was supposed to give his report first. I still have some notes I need to organize."   
  


Long, slender fingers drummed restlessly on the oak table. McGonnagal was *not* happy. A quick glance around the room, and Harry understood why.   
  


Malfoy wasn't here.   
  


There were few things that irritated Minerva McGonnagal more then an absent prefect, even if it wasn't from her own house. Personally, Harry thought this might be the easiest, most relaxed prefect meeting in ages. Who the hell cared if Malfoy wasn't there? It just meant he wouldn't have to endure the pale faced snot's icy glares in his direction.   
  


How that little shrimp had ever gotten to be Head Boy, he'd never understand.   
  


Well, no. That wasn't true. He knew exactly why Malfoy had been appointed Head Boy.   
  


Snape.   
  


The greasy-haired potions master had probably demanded that his pet Slytherin receive the honor; the knowledge that Harry was his only real competition for the position must have spurred Snape on to new heights of invective. Personally, Harry hadn't really cared *too* much about being Head Boy; it seemed like far too much work, in his opinion. Ron was the one who had been incensed that Malfoy had been picked over Harry; the volatile red head had been within an inch of hexing Snape during Potions class.   
  


So he hadn't really minded when Malfoy got picked for Head Boy. He did feel sorry for Hermione, who, as Head Girl, had to endure once-weekly meetings with McGonnagal, and Malfoy, and Snape. Poor Hermione always came out of those meetings looking like she'd had to wrestle with a blast-ended skrewt: even Ron took it easy on her after the "Head Summits" as he called them.   
  


However, Harry had been wishing recently that anyone. . .*anyone* other then Draco Malfoy had been appointed Head Boy. Not because of his wounded pride, but because. . .well, Head Boys and Girls didn't have to worry about curfews, and pretty much wandered the grounds with impunity. Prefects had extended privileges, of course, but they could still get in trouble quite easily, and he knew that *he* was always being watched especially closely.   
  


The invisibility cloak took care of a lot of that, but there was still the fact that Malfoy had almost caught him and Ron twice in the past three months.   
  


The first time had been almost laughable; it had been after a long hard quidditch practice. The rest of the team had already gone in but he and Ron had stayed out a bit longer to practice a new move Oliver had recommended. By the time practice was over, they were both hot and sweaty and alone. . .   
  
  
  


____________________________________   
  


"Harry. . .Wow, Harry. . ."   
  


Eyes closed, Harry Potter smiled, mouth continuing the ministrations that were making the red headed boy squirm. Ron *always* lost his vocabulary when ever they began to get serious; by the time they were actually shagging it was down to three words: "Harry," "Wow," and "Aaaaaah!"   
  


Strong hands reached up and tangled in his messy dark hair, tugging on the strands, tilting his face up so that hot lips could part his own, tongues meeting fiercely. Sex after quidditch practice was always roughly passionate; both boys at their physical peak, their clothes and hair already clinging to their bodies. Speaking of bodies. . .   
  


His own hands wandered over Ron's back, slipping beneath the scarlet quidditch robes before moving to the taller boys chest; pressing the red heads back against the wall of the equipment shed, mouth moving all the while. They hadn't made love for almost a week now; the need for secrecy was paramount, but he *needed* this. There were few things as frustrating as sharing a room with the love of your life, but not being able to be together.   
  


Incoherent words were slipping out of Ron's mouth, low groans and soft whimpers of pleasure that only spurred Harry on, mouth moving down the pale neck. The other boy made it impossible to shag quietly; another thing that drastically reduced the number of potential meeting places. Not that Harry was complaining; he loved listening to his red head when he lost all control. . .   
  


Somewhere in between Ron's gasps, though, he heard something that made him tense, pulling away slightly from the other boy.   
  


Footsteps?   
  


His complete change of tactics had not gone unnoticed by his best friend, who was looking confused and more then a bit frustrated at the sudden neglect to his neck.   
  


"Har--"   
  


Finger moving to his lips in a shushing motion, Harry turned, peering into the shadows around the corner from the quidditch shed. It was fully dark now. . .   
  


Another footstep and Harry pulled away even further from Ron, quickly tugging his robes back into place; out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Ron doing the same thing, albeit reluctantly. Dark locks of hair were brushing over his glasses, but his hair was *always* messy. Ron was looking a bit sulky, but that was far from an unheard of expression on that freckled face. And if they were all sweaty and flushed, so what? They *had* just finished quidditch practice, after all. There was absolutely *no* reason who ever it was would suspect that Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had been within five minutes of shagging outside the quidditch equipment shed. Nope, none at all.   
  


Still, Harry had to fight back a wave of frustration at the interruption. They had been so *close*, and his lips were still tingling from where Ron's had been pressing, hard, against them. Maintaining a secret relationship with his best friend was not the easiest thing in the world; sometimes the frustration was even intensified by their constant contact: they attended the same classes, ate together, studied together, practiced together, even slept in the same room. But sometimes, finding just fifteen minutes to be *alone* was impossible.   
  


Still, they had managed to keep their relationship secret for almost a year, now, because they refused to take chances. And every time he considered doing just that, the realization of what would happen if he did take a chance. . .and they got caught. . .sobered him quickly enough.   
  


Ron would be in danger.   
  


It was an unspoken acknowledgment between the two of them. They had never discussed it, never really had to. A member of a prominent pure-blood but well known Muggle-rights advocating family, son and brother of Ministry officials, and best friend of Harry Potter, Ron was a target for Voldemort. The first two qualifications might not matter much to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but Harry knew, sure as hell, that the third one did. A lot. Voldemort had already tried to capture Ron--once--last year. And had almost succeeded.   
  


Add to all that the entire Wizarding World knowing that Ron Weasley and Harry Potter were lovers, and the youngest Weasley boy would never be able to walk out of the Burrow again without a bodyguard. Harry already lived that way. He didn't want Ron to have to.   
  


And so no one knew. No one except Hermione, that was. Not the Weasleys, not their roommates, not even Sirius. And until Voldemort was dead, that was the way it had to be.   
  


Knowing all this. . .knowing it was true, knowing it was right, didn't help the fact that Harry hated it.   
  


The sound of the footsteps grew steadily louder, the thud of feet striking the ground, robes whispering against the grass that grew in high patches around the shed.   
  


The second before whoever-it-was rounded the corner, Harry realized how incredibly awkward--how staged--the whole thing looked. Ron was pouting, glaring at the grass beneath his feet as if it had just insulted the Cannons; he, Harry, was standing about ten feet away from the other boy as if he feared he might catch the plague.   
  


"So. . .who do the Cannon's play this week?"   
  


Disbelieving blue eyes flickered up to meet his own; Ron opened his mouth--no doubt to ask Harry what in the hell he was talking about--when a far less pleasant drawl cut him off.   
  


"Ah. Lose our way, boys? The way back to Hogwart's *is* a bit confusing."   
  


Even with his own eyes narrowed, Harry saw Ron's reaction: Fists clenching, a flush of red staining his freckled cheeks. Malfoy's patronizing tone had always been able to cut the other boy to the quick instantly.   
  


"What the hell are you doing here, Malfoy?"   
  


Watching Ron glare at Malfoy, Harry couldn't help but marvel that his red hair didn't stand up on end, so much did he resemble a cornered, bristling cat.   
  


"Not that it's any of your business, Weasley. . . *I* am simply performing my duties as Head Boy. After all, *someone* has to do them. Don't you agree, Potter?"   
  


With a supreme effort, Harry stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He just couldn't understand why Ron always went off like a Filibuster Firecracker whenever Malfoy so much as looked at him cross-eyed. Oh, Harry hated him--more for the way he treated Ron and Hermione then anything else--but honestly, the boy just wasn't worth the effort.   
  


"Yeah, sure. Whatever, Malfoy. Ready to go back to Hogwarts, Ron? "   
  


Still glaring at the pale haired Head Boy, Ron nodded, turning with Harry, heading toward the corner of the shed.   
  


"Wait a minute. Did I tell either of you that you could leave?"   
  


God. This was getting ridiculous.   
  


Laying a restraining hand on Ron's shoulder, Harry answered, not even deigning to turn around and face Malfoy as he spoke.   
  


"I didn't know your Head Boy duties extended to granting permission for other students as to when they can, and cannot leave your presence, Malfoy. Does that rule also apply when they need to go the loo?"   
  


Ron snickered beside him, pointedly not looking at Malfoy.   
  


"What were you both doing out here? It's after dark."   
  


"Wow, Malfoy. I'm so proud. You finally learned how to tell time! Five points to Slytherin!"   
  


Harry grinned at Ron's retort, still not looking at Malfoy. So far, so good. The Slytherin was deliberately provoking them, but Ron hadn't tried to knock him unconscious yet.   
  


"We're leaving, Malfoy. So sorry to leave your stimulating company and pleasant conversation. Perhaps another time."   
  


He never really knew why he had looked back. Looking back was never a good idea. . .look what happened to Lot's wife. But he had, a quick glance over his shoulder just before the wall of the shed blocked Malfoy from view. In that moment, caught in the light of the harvest moon and the stars, the other boy had looked ethereal, unearthly. A creature of light descending to a dark world.   
  


Except. . .   
  


His face.   
  


No. Not his face.   
  


His *eyes*   
  


There was something black, there. Something *dark* Something that reminded Harry of Sirius's eyes when he was remembering Azkhaban, and Voldemort's, and Vernon Dursley's, and every pair of eyes that had glared at him with nothing but contempt and hatred in their depths.   
  


_____________________________________________________   
  
  
  


". . .and the Fat Friar just *terrifies* one of our first years evidently. . ."   
  


". . .could we change the meeting time to. . ."   
  


". . .next quidditch match. . ."   
  


Harry let the words wash over him, avoiding McGonnagals eyes by appearing to take copious notes while in actuality, he scribbled away on his letter to his canine God-father.   
  


". . .Malfoy?"   
  


Harry paused, quill an inch above the scroll.   
  


"I do not know where Mr. Malfoy is. But you can be assured that Professor Snape will hear of his absence. Our Head Boy skipping out on our Holiday's meeting!"   
  


The irritation was evident in McGonnagal's voice, and for the first time, Harry found himself idly wondering where Malfoy was. It certainly wasn't like the Slytherin to miss any opportunity to bask in his authority; normally, if McGonnagal would let him, he presided over the Prefect meetings like a king at his court. What could Malfoy be doing that would be important enough to miss on his weekly power fix?   
  


Smiling slightly, Harry reflected that he knew exactly where he'd be, if he wasn't at this excruciatingly boring meeting. He had left a certain red head dozing on the couch in the Common Room, and he couldn't wait to get back there and wake him up. . .   
  


Besides, it was actually pleasant, with Malfoy gone. His hatred of Harry, evident since their second meeting on the Hogwarts Express, had only seemed to intensify over the years. And ever since their exchange behind the equipment shed two months earlier, it had reached new levels. There were times when Harry would feel the weight of eyes on him and turn, just in time, to see the fury in those pale eyes.   
  


Sometimes, Malfoy didn't even bother to hide the look. More then once, the Slytherin had deliberately held his eyes, daring him to look away. Those eyes had always held nothing but contempt for him, but before it had been detached, the disgust and anger of a boy who was regarding his arch-enemy. Recently, there was something else behind it. Something personal, as if Harry had done something to deliberately hurt Malfoy. . .   
  


But today, for whatever reason, Malfoy was gone and there were no icy glares being thrown in his direction. . .except, that was, the one's he was receiving from McGonnagal for not paying attention.   
  


With the Slytherin gone, they might even be able to adjourn early.   
  
  
  


____________________________________________   
  
  
  
  
  


With a sigh of relief, he slipped out the door of the meeting room, avoiding the other prefect's efforts at conversation. He didn't want to discuss curfews, and rules, and the window that Fred and George Weasley had charmed two years ago that *still* burst into song every hour, on the hour, certainly not now that the meeting was over. He was going back to the Gryffindor Common Room to "play chess" with Ron for the rest of the afternoon. And evening. And just maybe all night.   
  


That thought put a bit more speed in his step as he walked up the steps to Gryffindor Tower, ignoring the waves and words of the various portraits until he found himself standing in front of the Fat Lady, fast asleep, double chin resting on her palm, leaning against the frame.   
  


"Cannon's Rule."   
  


He'd switched the password yesterday; Ron had made him promise to make that phrase a password at least once this year, so he'd chosen the Christmas season, when it was just the two of them in Gryffindor Tower. It was actually kind of cute, the way Ron said it, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes lighting up.   
  


One watercolor eye opened just enough for a flash of recognition to show, and the Portrait door swung open.   
  


He slipped through it easily enough, eyes already moving across the room to couches nearest the fire where he had left the youngest Weasley boy, asleep, an hour ago.   
  


The first thing he saw wasn't his best friend, however.   
  


Standing not three feet away from him, a stunned, furious look on his face, stood. . .   
  


Himself.   
  


There was no doubt about that. The figure in front of him was--looked like--Harry James Potter. Same height, same build, same tousled black hair, same black rimmed glasses covering the same jade green eyes.   
  


Hands moving before thought, he drew his wand, pointing at the intruder.   
  


Who the hell was it?   
  


"Who. The. *Hell* Are. You?   
  


He'd never heard his own voice so shocked, so stuttered. It was as his breath wasn't working in his own lungs.   
  


Slowly, a smirk began to bloom on that eerily identical face and the *thing* brushed a tangle of black hair out of his eyes with one graceful movement. And even before he heard his own voice, he knew who it was. . .who it had to be.   
  


"Me? Isn't it obvious, Harry? I'm your long lost identical twin brother, Herbie!"   
  


Harry's hand clenched, white knuckled, around his wand.   
  


"Malfoy."   
  


The gestures, the smirk, the words. . .Draco Malfoy. It had to be.   
  


Now he knew what the Slytherin had been up to while Harry had been in the Prefect meeting.   
  


But. . .why?   
  


Glints of gold and silver were starting to catch the firelight, the light colors spreading through the other boy's black hair like a spreading stain.   
  


Teeth clenched painfully, he ground out the words harshly. For the first time, he noticed the look on the other boy's face, which was now a crazy collage of his and Malfoy's features. Assured, triumphant. There was almost no fear on that face; Malfoy looked liked the cat that had eaten the proverbial canary.   
  


"What the fuck are you doing, Malfoy?"   
  


Pale eyes flashed, quick, in a glance at the still ajar Portrait Hole. Chin length blond hair brushed his collar, and for a moment, Harry thought he saw a mark on the other boys neck. . .   
  


"Oh, I just borrowed something of yours and used it for a while, Potter. It's Ok, though. You can have it back now. I'm done. . ."   
  


The taunting in that voice was as evident as the self-satisfied smirk on Malfoy's face. A horrible suspicion began to bloom in Harry's mind.   
  


What. . .   
  


No.   
  


Unable to stop himself, his eyes flickered away from Malfoy, focusing on the staircase leading up to the boy's dorms.   
  


Ron wasn't in the Common Room. Either he had left before Malfoy, disguised as Harry, had arrived, or. . .   
  


He caught the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, whirling to confront the Slytherin, and barely held his breath as a wall of smoke suddenly appeared between them. He could only listen as the other boy slipped out the Portrait Hole, and the Fat Lady's surprised shriek drilled into his ears.   
  


He could follow him, he knew. He wanted to, desperately. But. . .   
  


He didn't know what had happened to Ron.   
  


Heart beating fast and quick, he started up the stairs to his room.   
  


______________________________________________-   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Ok, I lied. This doesn't have Harry's reaction. That's in the *next* chapter. But I had to write this for the chapter after that to make sense. Make sense? Sigh. I didn't even intend for this to be a chaptered fic, just a one shot. Harry's reaction is going to be. . .interesting. Ooh, and tell me what you think, please.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. The Name Game

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: It's posted on Chapter 1. If you haven't read Chapter 1, this won't make any sense.   
  


Summary: Chapter 3 of what was supposed to be a one-shot fic. Pairing: Ron/Harry, allusions to Ron/Draco   
  
  
  


*************************************************   
  
  
  


For a moment--just a brief moment--he had been convinced that it was all a bluff. Ron wasn't even in their room.   
  


Heart pounding in his chest, breath racing through his lungs from his sprint up the stairs, the very first place his eyes had moved to when he stumbled into their dorm room had been the other boy's bed.   
  


Which had been typically messy, unmade. And completely empty.   
  


The air he had trapped in his lungs escaped in a rush, relief hit him in a wave so powerful he almost swayed on his feet. Malfoy had been lying. The Slytherin had tricked him, getting him all worried about Ron so that he could escape. . .   
  


A soft, sleepy mutter from the other side of the room, and Harry's hand, which had been relaxing around his wand, clenched tight enough to send jolts of pain through the tendons in his wrist.   
  


Forcing himself to relax the grip on his wand Harry turned, blinking against the glare of the sunlight, and froze.   
  


Ron. . .   
  


Curled up on his side, buried under the mound of comforters on Neville Longbottom's bed. Fast asleep.   
  


Only the top of that crimson head stuck out from underneath the blankets. The rest of the boy remained burrowed under the comforters; the room was almost cold enough to see the vapors of his breath. The discarded clothes that made a trail from the door to Neville's bed, however, left Harry with very little doubt that Ron was completely naked underneath their roommates' wool blankets.   
  


Heart hammering away in his chest, Harry watched as the red headed boy murmured something in his sleep that sounded like a breathy whisper of his own name.   
  


Malfoy. . .   
  


He hadn't lied.   
  


Numbly, Harry stumbled backward, collapsing on the nearest bed--which just happened to be his own--never taking his eyes off of his best friend and lover.   
  


Ron was naked. Asleep. In Neville Longbottom's bed.   
  


If the situation hadn't been so sick, he would have laughed. The words just kept on repeating, over and over, in his head.   
  


Ron was naked, fast asleep, in Neville's bed. And he had just caught Draco Malfoy, disguised as . . .himself, Harry, trying to sneak out of Gryffindor tower, desperate to get away before the Prefect meeting ended and he came back. All of this evidence was adding up to a conclusion Harry didn't even want to *begin* to think about.   
  


//Ron, did you. . .?//   
  


The trail of discarded clothes, the remembered look of triumph and satiation on that pale, pointed face, the briefest glimpse of a love bite through shifting strands of silvery blond hair, all pointing to the fact that Ron, indeed, *had*. All merely confirming what he already knew.   
  


*"Oh, I just borrowed something of yours and used it for a while, Potter. It's Ok, though. You can have it back now, I'm done. . ."*   
  


That *bastard.*   
  


He had. . .had fucked Ron. *His* Ron. His best friend for seven years, his lover for one. The most important person in the world to him.   
  


Fury sang through his nerves, his fists clenched, an uncharacteristic rush of heat causing color to bloom in his cheeks. Ron slept on, oblivious to Harry's presence, and a cold voice sneered in Harry's mind:   
  


//How could you not know, Ron? How could you not know who it was? Even with the Polyjuice Potion, can't you tell the difference between me and Malfoy?//   
  


Abruptly he shivered, clenching his hands painfully in his messy raven hair. He doubted that Malfoy had given Ron much of an opportunity to figure anything out. The usurper had probably just snuck through the Portrait Hole and commenced screwing the other boy senseless. And Ron had responded as enthusiastically as he always did when he and Harry made love.   
  


*Made love*   
  


The words tasted bitter on his tongue. Wrong. Malfoy and Ron hadn't made love. Malfoy didn't know anything about love. Malfoy had *fucked* Ron. As Harry.   
  


An image of himself and Ron together flashed before his eyes. Only this Harry had Malfoy's smirk, Malfoy's cold eyes. This Harry was pinning a struggling Ron underneath him, taking obvious pleasure in the other boys futile efforts.   
  


//Did he hurt you?//   
  


His scalp was screaming in protest but his fingers only clenched tighter. A barrage of thoughts hit him, each one a hard kick to the gut.   
  


Malfoy had Polyjuice Potion.   
  


Malfoy had fucked Ron. 

And Ron had no idea.   
  


Malfoy knew how to get into Gryffindor Tower.   
  


Oh, shit. . .   
  


Malfoy knew. Malfoy knew. Malfoy *knew*.   
  


Malfoy knew about him and Ron. The secret they had spent the last year guarding so jealously; watching their every touch, their every glance, every word. The secret they had worked so hard to keep, at any cost. The one thing no one could ever know, because it put Ron in so much danger. . .   
  


And Malfoy, Junior fucking Death Eater, knew. First hand.   
  


His face was still flushed with anger, but the rest of him suddenly felt very, very cold.   
  


So Malfoy had known. For how long? Two months, probably, ever since he had almost caught them behind the equipment shed. And he hadn't told, not yet. Probably so he could taunt Harry this one time. . .   
  


It. . .*was* one time?   
  


Suddenly every time he had left Ron alone in the past two months rushed over him. Every Prefect meeting, every breakfast he had skipped, every class they had together that Ron had skived off on. Was this the first time?   
  


It had to be. Had to. He and Ron didn't get the opportunity to be together very often and besides, that sort of thing left. . .marks.   
  


Like the bite Draco Malfoy was right now sporting on his neck.   
  


Abruptly Harry stood, heat rushing through him again. He was going to find that little pale, pointy faced Slytherin, and he was going to kill him. And then he was going to bring him back to life, and kill him again.   
  


He crossed the room swiftly, a look of fierce determination in his green eyes that would have made Professor Snape or You-Know-Who himself take pause. His hand was on the doorknob, preparing to wrench it open and corner Draco Malfoy, when one last rational thought flittered through his mind.   
  


//What if leaving is exactly what he wants you to do?//   
  


He froze, hand still gripping the silver knob. He didn't know where Malfoy was. More important, he didn't know *who* Malfoy was. He could be McGonnagal, or Dumbeldore, or even Susan Bones. Merlin only knew how much Polyjuice Potion the Slytherin had brewed, and how many pieces of people he had collected. What if he left. . .and Malfoy came back? What if Malfoy turned into *him* again?   
  


What if he turned into Ron?   
  


No fucking way. He wasn't going to let Ron out of his sight.   
  


He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, spots of color dancing beneath his eyelids. Blood was rushing through his veins; he felt feverish. Adrenaline raced through him even as he turned away from the door, letting his hand fall to his side where it clenched and unclenched the fabric of his robes.   
  


Something. He had to do something.   
  


Another image of Malfoy--as him--with Ron washed over him and he crossed the room in three giant strides, staring down at the boy in Neville Longbottom's bed.   
  


With one quick pull he tugged the comforters completely off the bed, leaving them pooled in a heap on the stone floor. Before Ron could even begin to react, he was on top of the other boy, savoring the heat that seemed to radiate off of him, even in the ice cold room.   
  


Startled blue eyes flew open, the last traces of sleepiness banished almost instantly at the sudden rush of cold air and the weight pressing down on top of him. The surprised expression melted instantly, however, when recognition flickered in those blue eyes. Long arms slipped around his back, pulling him closer, and soft lips parted under his. For him.   
  


This was his. All his.   
  


Frantically, Harry dove into the kiss, attacking Ron's mouth with a fervor that surprised both of them. His hands were everywhere, tangling in the other boys hair, running over his chest, smoothing over the ridges of his spine. And other, more intimate places that were making the red head gasp.   
  


His hands were stroking through the copper strands and he tugged sharply, exposing the length of throat before him, claiming it with his teeth and tongue. One mark. . .a bite, brand new. Left by *his* mouth, courtesy of Draco Malfoy. He closed his mouth over it, feeling the beat of the hot pulse underneath the warm skin. Wiping away all traces of Malfoy. Of the snake that had taken what was his, and *only* his. Goose bumps raised on his flesh as he stripped his robes off, but every inch of skin that was touching Ron's was burning. The other boy was panting, a look of dazed pleasure flitting across that expressive face.   
  


"Harry. . .I--I dunno what's g-gotten into you, t-toda--"   
  


Roughly, he stopped Ron's words with his lips, tongue slipping inside. Claiming every corner, every inch of that warm mouth. Erasing all traces of the last person to use it. Everywhere.   
  


They'd never made love with such desperation before. The bright, cold room was filled with sounds of passion. He touched every inch of skin, consumed every breath. Ron somehow recognized Harry's need and met it with his own, driving them both further and further...Harry took Ron over the edge, the red head calling out his name over and over again:   
  


"Harry. . .Harry! Harry!"   
  


He devoured the cries, relishing the sound of his name on his lovers lips. With every chant of his name he drove deeper, harder into what was his until sensation rocked over him and he collapsed, clutching the hot, flushed body beneath him.   
  


Gasping, his hands reached up of their own accord and slipped behind the other boy's neck, palms pressing against the smooth throat. Marked, now. Marked by him. Black strands of sweaty hair hit his eyelashes; Ron's shaking hand reached up and gently brushed them away.   
  


"Say my name again."   
  


A breathless, quizzical smile flickered across those dazed features; Harry traced a patch of freckles with his fingertip. Five of the darker spots on the soft skin of Ron's left cheek were scattered in the shape of star.   
  


"Say my name again."   
  


A small smirk was beginning to replace that utterly debauched look; it was evident Ron thought he was being completely mental. Looking into those still innocent blue eyes, he knew, deep inside himself, that he would never tell Ron what Malfoy had done. He wouldn't be able to bear the change in those eyes.   
  


**"By the way, Ron. Remember that time I skipped the Prefect meeting so that we could have a shag? Well, that wasn't really me. Turns out you were fucking Draco Malfoy disguised as me by Polyjuice Potion. . ."**   
  


Ron didn't have to know.   
  


He, Harry, could get Malfoy by himself. And he would.   
  
  
  
  
  


"Harry."   
  


Fondness and exasperation in that hoarse voice. The small smirk grew wider.   
  


"Again."   
  


"Harry."   
  


"Again."   
  


A chuckle burst out of that smooth throat; the body underneath his shook with laughter. Harry's hands slipped up, away from the other boys neck and shoulders, twining in the shiny red hair.   
  


"Harry. Harry. HarryHarryHarryHarryHarry. Harry-Harry-bo-Barry, Banana-Fanna-Fo--Farry, Me My Mo Mar--"   
  


He stopped the nonsensical lyrics with his mouth. Then his tongue. Then his hands.   
  


Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would find Malfoy. Tomorrow was Christmas eve; he would corner the Slytherin after the evening feast. Until then, he wasn't letting Ron out of his sight. Or out of this bed.   
  
  
  
  
  


*****************************************   
  
  
  
  
  


Next Chapter: the Part you've all been waiting for! (I hope) It's Potter vs. Malfoy! No holds barred! Things are gonna get nasty, people.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Been There, Done You, Weasley

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: Chapter 1, people. Chapter 1.   
  


Summary: Well, the first chapter was Draco's POV. The next two were Harry's. Let's even it up a bit, shall we?   
  


Notes: I have a thing for R/Ha/D triangles; imagine my shock when I discovered I wasn't the only one! To anyone who reviews this, I admire your dedication. Shameless Plug: If you've read this far and you like it, thank you, thank you, thank you. (Blows kisses) But this story is not my best. IMHO that is "A Deal With the Devil" and I strongly urge you to check it out if you already haven't. If you have. . .(blows more kisses)   
  
  
  


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Christmas Eve.   
  


The Hogwart's grounds lay blanketed in snow; the harsh winter wind screamed around the stone walls of the ancient castle, seeking entrance through cracks and corners and broken panes of glass.   
  


The high hum of the wind was heard everywhere. . .including the Slytherin dorms, buried deep in the bowels of the stone fortress.   
  


Green and silver on dark stone, the atmosphere of the Common Room was cold. And the single, solitary figure who sat on the couch indeed looked quite cold, despite the fire that burned in the grate less then four feet away from him.   
  


Slowly, a pale hand stretched out, closer and closer to the fire.   
  


It flared, sparks of red and gold--hideous colors, really--snapping up, trying to consume the hand that the Slytherin held so deceptively out of reach.   
  


It was a deal between him and the fire. A game they played. He taunted it, daring it to affect him, to spread any sort of warmth through his skin. Always holding himself just far enough away that it could not touch him, burn him.   
  


And it danced, flared and surged. Heat and light that, if not checked, would consume everything. Including him.   
  


He would not allow himself to be hynotized by the flames.   
  


He would not allow himself to be burned.   
  


* * *

He was laughing. Again.   
  


Honestly, sometimes it seemed like that was the *only* thing Weasley did. Head tilted back, coppery hair tumbling down into his eyes as he shook his head. Talking with some simpering Seventh year Hufflepuff. . .Cindy? Samantha? She was blushing, some stupid little smile on her face that everyone at the table recognized. . .except Weasley, that was. She could have had "I want to shag you, Ron Weasley" spelled out on her Prefect badge and he would asked her which Ron Weasley she was talking about.   
  


Potter didn't look too happy about it, either. He kept sending little glares--not at Ron, but at the love-struck Hufflepuff. Most of the time, Potter was much more subtle, and did an admirable job not letting his feelings show. . .unlike his partner. But the emotion flashing through those green eyes was unmistakable.   
  


Jealousy.   
  


Of course, Potter had a lot more reason to be jealous, now.   
  


And the Gryffindor knew it.   
  


//How does it feel to know that your worst enemy shagged your boyfriend, Potter?//   
  


The black haired boy had refused to look at him all evening. Weasley hadn't changed; he had greeted Draco with the same fury as he always did. Fists clenched, blue eyes glaring, lips twisted in the special sneer that only he could invoke on that freckled face. One glance was all it took for Draco to confirm that Potter hadn't told him anything: Weasley had no fucking clue.   
  


But Potter. . .   
  


Potter couldn't seem to take his eyes off of Ron. He watched the red headed boys every movement, smiling only when the other boy spoke to him. Watching the table, set for the Christmas Eve feast, waiting for the teachers to arrive and the food to appear.   
  


Draco watched them both.   
  


He had suspected. . .for how long now? A year, at least. Since before the Death Eaters attempt to kidnap Ron, anyway. The way they acted around each other hadn't changed, not really. . .they had always been best friends, after all. Always together. Talking, working, laughing. Touching. Hands on shoulders, playful shoves. The way they looked at each other. Secret smiles that only they could understand. . .   
  


Fuck. He hated it.   
  


Always together. Always. Best friends wasn't enough, evidently. No, they had to be *everything* to each other.   
  


Icicles glittered, catching the candlelight and winking back through the dark pine needles. There were only a dozen or so students at Hogwarts this Christmas, but the Great Hall was as gorgeous as ever, with evergreen trees and fairy lights and snowflakes falling softly on the enchanted ceiling. Misteltoe hung throughout the hall, vanishing and appearing over various heads.   
  


A soft burst of light, and a sprig of the kissing plant appeared over Draco's head. Ignoring Weasley's barely stifled snicker, he glared at the offending plant until it dissapeared, properly chastened. He was sitting between Crabbe and Goyle. No way in hell was any fucking plant going force him to kiss *them*   
  


He had a far more pleasant taste still lingering on his lips.   
  


He allowed a small smirk to form on his face, realizing again how utterly infuriated Potter must be. When he had come up with Polyjuice potion, he had never, ever intended to get caught. Malfoy's did not get caught. But. . .   
  


Having Potter find out the way he had--seeing the jealousy and anger that was oh-so-obviously ripping the other boy up--it was too good to be true.   
  


The Professors filed in together, gathered in little clumps, seating themselves at various places around the table. Dumbeldore, Draco noticed, watched Potter carefully, as if sensing his golden boy's unrest. Idly, Draco wondered if Dumbeldore knew about Potter and Weasley. Probably. If anyone watched Harry Potter as closely as he watched Ron Weasley, it would be Professor Dumbeldore.   
  


The white-haired headmaster gave a speech which Draco ignored, watching the two boys seated across from him. Cindy or Suzanne the Hufflepuff was still staring at Weasley, a quiet, imploring look in her eyes. He remained completely oblivious, brilliant head bent down, muttering something in Potter's ear. It really gave Draco an excellent view of Weasley's neck. . .   
  


He shivered abruptly, remembering how that neck had tasted underneath his mouth. The gasps and moans and pleas for more that had issued from that smooth throat, the way the body underneath his had jerked when he had bitten down hard enough to bruise. . .   
  


Wait a minute.   
  


Draco raised his wine glass, swirling the ruby contents gently, watching carefully as Weasley straightened, flushing prettily under McGonnagal's reproving glare.   
  


It was gone. The mark he had left on Weasley's neck was completely gone. As if it had never existed.   
  


Potter.   
  


He felt his fingers clench tightly around the wine glass and he set it down roughly, barely noticing as a few drops slid off the side and stained the white linen tablecloth beneath it.   
  


God. He hated him.   
  


The Gryffindor had probably erased all the marks Draco had left on Weasley. Every inch of skin he had touched, every corner, every crevice. The two must have been getting rid of those marks for as long as they had been lovers. . . try as he might, Draco had never seen any physical evidence on either of them.   
  


A "Tuck in" from Dumbeldore and a feast appeared on the gleaming plates. Everyone ate with a hearty appetite--everyone, that is, except for himself and Potter.   
  


The conversation lagged, as conversations so often do when food appears. Draco took another sip of wine, feeling the cheap vintage burn the back of his throat, and watched.   
  


Weasley was devouring everything within reach, like a condemned man before his last meal. No wonder his family was so desperately poor, if his entire family ate like that. Potter simply picked at his food, shoving the potatoes around his plate, spearing a bite of roast chicken with a particularly vicous thrust of his fork.   
  


Draco couldn't help but feel that it had been his face Potter had seen when he had skewered that hapless piece of chicken. It was amusing, really. The Boy Who Lived, who had everything you could ever want. . .finally denied something. Finally realizing that being famous didnt mean you automatically got everything you wanted. And the self-appointed savior of the Wizarding world was sulking like a spoiled child.   
  


A contented sigh escaped his lips. Only one figure at the table noticed; Potter's head jerked up and, for the first time that evening, their eyes met.   
  


Oh, yes.   
  


The boy was furious.   
  


Those famous green eyes glared at him from beneath those hideous glasses; in their gaze Draco saw a hatred equal to his own.   
  


In any other place, at any other time, that look would sent chills up and down his spine and he would have drawn his wand before the other boy blinked.   
  


Now, he simply raised his wineglass in a mock toast, rubbing his fingers against the sore spot on his own neck where Ron had bit down, hard, when he came. . .   
  


The Gryffindor's eyes narrowed, his own hand jerking towards the inside pocket of his robes, groping for his wand before he visibly stopped himself, tearing his eyes away from Draco's knowing smirk to glare at the snowflakes drifting softly overhead.   
  


Weasley muttered something in Potter's ear, but the black haired boy shook his head, still staring at the ceiling. After another worried glance in Harry's directions, those blue eyes flickered up and down the table before settling on him.   
  


Ah. Such a predictable look. Cheeks flushing, eyes narrowing with fury. Ever since their first meeting on the Hogwarts Express, when Ron had laughed at him, that was the look the red headed boy had greeted him with.   
  


Except, that was, yesterday.   
  


Yesterday the look had been completely different. When he had woken the sleeping red-head on the couch in Gryffindor tower and a slow, lazy smile had formed on that innocent face. . .   
  


Something whispered in Draco's mind, he shoved it away, ruthlessly. He had gotten what he wanted. That was all that mattered.   
  


Weasley's eyes darted back and forth between him and Potter, obviously detecting him as the sense of Potter's surliness. Those blue eyes glared at him again, and lips that had been pressed to his only yesterday mouthed the words silently.   
  


"Fuck you, Malfoy."   
  


Unable to stop it, a small chuckle forced it's way out of Draco's mouth. It was obviously not the reply the red head had been anticipating; he gaped as the Slytherin smiled at him.   
  


//Been there, done you, Weasley.//   
  


"MR. WEASLEY!"   
  


Minerva McGonnagal's voice drilled into Draco's ears, almost making him drop his wineglass. It *did* startle Ron into dropping his fork, which bounced off of his plate with a loud clang and fell to the floor. The red head dissapeared under the table and the entire table watched, listening as the boy muttered under his breath before re-appearing with the utensil, hair sticking up with static from the tablecloth and face the exact same shade as his hair.   
  


Barely had he reemerged before McGonnagal pounced on him, furiously informing him he had earned a detention for insulting a fellow student. Evidently McGonngal hadn't missed their little exchange, and Draco could tell it was killing her to give Ron a detention and not him.   
  


Weasley flushed, staring down determinedly at his newly found fork, avoiding everyone's eyes and obviously tuning his Head of House out--until, that was, she told him of the time for his detention.   
  


"What? Professor McGonngall, that's--that's not fair! Tonight's Christmas Eve! You can't give me detention on Christmas Eve! Harry and I--"   
  


Ron broke off abruptly, even more color creeping into his cheeks. A subtle movement caught Draco's eye and he would have sworn, if he could see through tablecloths, that Potter had just taken Weasley's hand and squeezed it reassuringly.   
  


Disgusting.   
  


Another tirade by McGonnagal and Ron nodded, still staring at his place, accepting his three-hour Christmas Eve detention. Suzanne or Cindy or Sandy looked sweetly sympathetic, even as she cowered away from McGonnagal. Potter watched the scene silently, saying nothing until McGonnagal was finished, turning away to speak with that bat Trewlaney.   
  


"It'll be Ok, Ron. It's just three hours. . .and you know McGonnagal's not going to make you walk Hagrid's skrewts or write fan mail for her. . ."   
  


The red head sighed, left hand clenching the white tablecloth. His other hand, Draco couldn't help but notice, remained underneath the table. As did Potter's.   
  


"But it's Christmas Eve, Harry! We were going to eat some of Mum's toffee, and, err. . . 'play chess' all evening."   
  


The other boy laughed, softly. For the first time since he and Ron had walked in to the Great Hall, he saw some of the jealousy slip out of those eyes.   
  


Fuck.   
  


"Don't worry. I'll wait for you, Ok? I'll stay here, in the Great Hall, until you get back. I'll stay here, after dinner, to meet you."   
  


A quick glance at him through thick, black rimmed glasses, made it perfectly clear that Potter wasn't talking to Ron.   
  


So, Potter wanted to have it out after dinner, did he?   
  


So be it.   
  


A Malfoy never backed down from a challenge.   
  
  
  


_____________________________________________   
  
  
  


He wandered the halls, listening to his footsetps echo on the stone stairs, waiting for the House-elves to finish cleaning up the Great Hall. Potter, true to his word, had stayed behind in the giant room after everyone but the House Elves had dissapeared, Weasley trailing McGonnagal like a kicked puppy.   
  


He paused by one frost painted window, watching as the snow continued to fall, thicker now then it had at dinner. That big oafs Hagrid's hut had all but dissapeared in the drifts. The white flakes covered everything, the quidditch pitch, the equipment shed. The lake was nothing more then a huge sheet of ice.   
  


The lake. . .   
  


Unconsciously, his eyes narrowed, glaring out at the flat, frozen expanse of water.   
  


That was it, really. When he had begun to suspect that Potter and Weasley were "more then friends"(1) The second task of the TriWizard tournament that Potter had weasled his way into. Every other champion had chosen either their girlfriend or a sibling as the thing they needed most in the world.   
  


But no. Not Potter.   
  


Potter had chosen *Weasley*   
  


His fists clenched, remembering the thrill of fear that had gone through him, as the minutes ticked by and the time limit was passed. . .and he hadn't appeared. Many of the Slytherin's had been crowing at the idea of the Boy Who Lived drowning under the very eyes of Albus Dumbeldore, but he hadn't felt anything for Potter.   
  


Except hate.   
  


Black hate, like nothing else he had experienced before. Until the dark haired boy had suddenly appeared, soaked and gasping, emerging from the water with that French tart's sister under one arm and *Ron* under the other. . .   
  


And then a wave of relief had hit him at the sight of that bright hair; stunning him with its power. The Slytherin's around him had booed, muttering curses at Potter, but Draco had been frozen, eyes trained on the sopping wet red head that was grinning cheerfully.   
  


At Potter.   
  


Always. Always at Potter.   
  


He pressed his fingers to the glass, feeling the cold seep through their tips. Forcing himself not to shiver from the draft coming from under the window, he remembered something warmer under his fingertips. The way Ron's breath had tasted, when he had released desperate cries into his mouth. . .   
  


A few soft squeaks, a barely seen flash of enormous eyes and the hall was silent again. The house-elves were always as meek as possible around him; they had doubtless heard stories from Dobby.   
  


He had chosen this hall because he knew the House-elves would have to use it to reach the kitchens. Evidently their cleaning duties were finished, and the only one left in cavernous Great Hall was *him*   
  


Potter.   
  


_____________________________________________   
  
  
  


Candlelight flickered, the fairy lights hung on the evergreen branches twinkling like stars in the dim light. The house-elves had extinguished all lights other then the few candles near the table they had dined at that evening. The hall was spotless; the snow still falling softly on the roof. Four Christmas trees, each decorated in the color of one of the houses, near the dais.   
  


Breathtaking, really, the cast of the stormy winter sky against the few flickering candles that were the only source of light for the cavernous room. Only one thing marred the scene, prevented it from achieving perfection.   
  


Potter stood, back to him, examining the Christmas tree nearest the table. The Gryffindor Christmas tree, of course. Trimmed with ribbons of red and gold, decorations that easily shone in the sparse light. No movement from the other boy, not even when he had allowed the door to snick shut with a perfectly audible click, but Draco wasn't fooled. Potter knew he was here.   
  


His footsteps echoed, low and long, as he walked toward the dark haired boy, watching his features grow more and more distinct as he drew closer, as the fairy lights on the Gryffindor tree cast a halo of golden light around The Boy Who Lived.   
  


Still, the other boy did not turn.   
  


For a moment, they just stood there. Draco was close enough that he could hear the other boy's breath as it rasped in and out of his lungs, but Potter did not turn and Draco did not speak.   
  


"Malfoy."   
  


Finally, the dark haired boy tore his eyes away from the tree, half turning, glasses reflecting the flames of a few flickering candles. One hand at his side, the other buried in his robes. . . clutching his wand, no doubt. Harry Potter's *famous* phoenix feather wand.   
  


An old memory flashed in front of his eyes. Second year, the dueling club. He and Potter facing each other in this same hall. Only then it had been teeming with students and Professors, bright lights forcing all the shadows away, exposing every weakness. Slytherins and Gryffindors yelling encouragement or abuse from the sidelines.   
  


But now it was only the two of them; the Hall was deserted, with only the winter sky as a witness.   
  


His left hand, hidden in the folds of his emerald green robe, clutched his own mahagony wand tightly. He would not let Potter beat him.   
  


But still, the other boy didn't draw. Those green eyes gazed at him, unreadable beneath the reflected flames flickering on his glasses.   
  


"How did you know?"   
  


His own eyes widened, startled.   
  


"How did you know? About me and Ron?"   
  


Oh, it was obvious how much it was choking the other boy to force those words out. A small feeling of warmth began to bloom in Draco's chest as he watched the worry play across Potter's face.   
  


"Why do you care? Shouldn't you be trying to hex me in half for screwing your boyfriend, Potter?"   
  


A quick movement, and suddenly they were standing toe to toe, less then a foot apart. For the first time since entering the room, Draco could clearly see Potter's eyes, easily identifying the emotion in them.   
  


Hate. Pure and simple.   
  


The warmth in him grew; a spitefull part of him gloried in the pain he knew the other boy must be feeling. *Must* be. He had suffered--for years. Now, finally, the bitter taste was in Potter's mouth.   
  


Calmly, he stared into those eyes. The exact same level as his grey ones. Perfectly matched, in every way.   
  


"I just knew."   
  


Evidently not the answer Potter had hoped for. His teeth clenched, eyes narrowing.   
  


"Did. . . you tell anyone else?"   
  
  
  


Real fear, in that voice. Almost but not quite buried under the anger.   
  


Ah. So. . .that was what Potter was most worried about. The spectre of Voldemort, hanging over his head like a sword about to fall.   
  


Yes, fear in that voice. But not enough. Not nearly enough. He remembered how it had been for *him*, during the second task of the Tri-Wizard tournament. Or last year, when Death Eaters had appeared to have kidnapped Ron right out of Hogwarts.   
  


Disgust welled up in him, eyes flickering up and down the other boy's trembling body. A smile, cold as an icicle, formed on his face.   
  


"Does *Voldemort* know? Is that what you wanted to ask, Potter? Does the Wizard who wants you dead know the one thing you can't live without?"   
  


He spat the words out, unable to keep the contempt out of his own voice. God, he hated Potter. .   
  


Quicker then Draco would have believed, Potter's hand shot out of his robes. But it was not clutching a wand; both fists clenched in his own silk robes, dragging them face to face, breath intermingling.   
  


"Stop fucking with me, Malfoy. I can have Dumbeldore arrest you for possession of an illegal potion and. . .and *rape* five minutes after I walk out of that door.Tell me, now. Does *he* know? Who did you tell?"   
  


Face so close to other boy's he could feel the whisper of his breath on his own lips, he reached up and twisted his own hands in Potter's robes, fingers itching to clutch the throat in front of him and choke the air from it.   
  


Potter was obviously fighting similar thoughts; his fingers were white knuckled in Draco's robes, arms shaking, eyes glinting dangerously in the dim hall.   
  


"No one."   
  


A smirk crossed his face as Potter's eyes widened, disbelief flashing through them.   
  


"I don't believe you."   
  


One swift movement was all it took and he was free of Potter's grasp, smoothing the green silk of his robe where the other boy had twisted the fabric.   
  


"Fine. Don't believe me. But tell me this, Potter. . .why would I lie? To lull you into a false sense of security? Any sense of security you have is false already, and you know it. Because I'm foolish enough to believe that you would actually trust me that I hadn't told anyone about the fact that you're fucking Weasley? You don't trust me, and while you may be a Gryffindor, even *you* aren't that naive, and I'm not that stupid to think you would believe me. I wouldn't lower myself to lie to the likes of you."   
  


For a moment, Potter simply looked at him quietly, the only sound that of their breath echoing harshly. Then, to Draco's astonishment, a small, bitter smile began to form on Potter's face. . .a smile that looked completely out of place on that famous visage; it was far more suited to his own.   
  


"The question isn't, 'Why would you lie?' Malfoy. The question is; 'why would you be telling the truth?' You *hate* me. You *hate* Ron. Why would you keep something like that a secret? I would think it would be the happiest day in your life when you could grovel at your masters feet and tell him that all he has to do is knock off Ron Weasley and Harry Potter will collapse. You were just waiting until you could get one good fuck in before you turned us in. "   
  


Conviction rang through the other boy's tone; his fists, clenched at his sides, trembled with the effort of holding them down. There was no doubt in Potter's voice; he obviously believed every fucking word he had just said.   
  


A torrent of words choked him, curses and hexes and spells crowding on his tongue. For the first time in ages he felt not just warm, but hot--fury was making his face flush, Potter's words echoed in his ears.   
  


"I *hate* you."   
  


His own voice was thick, stumbling over the basic, one syllable words.   
  


The foreign smirk widened, even as those pretty green eyes hardened.   
  


"Cutting a little too close for comfort, eh, Malfoy? Suprised that I figured out your little game? Is that it? I know you told someone. Since the day we met, all you've wanted is to get one-up on me. . .and now you know my biggest weakness. You must be *thrilled* Fucking Ron was just a bonus for you, wasn't it?"   
  


Sometime during Potter's rant, Draco's hand had closed around one of the ornaments dangling from the evergreen branches of the Gryffindor Christmas tree--a delicate, glass blown diamond shape, with three angels carved on it--and, in the stretch of silence after the other boy had finished, he flung it, as hard as he could, at Potter's feet.   
  


The fragile ornament was no match for the cold stone floor of the Great Hall; the angels did not so much break as explode in a burst of sparkling dust, shards of glass flying everywhere, striking Potter's robes.   
  


"You. Are so. Fucking. Stupid."   
  


His action had taken the other boy completely by surprise; recoiling when the glass ornament had shattered at his feet. Now those wide, startled eyes met his, the taunting smile, for now at least, completely gone.   
  


"You. Always *You* Potter. My every action is done so that I can one up *you.* I've known about you and Weasley for months--*months* Potter--and if I don't tell anyone, of course, it's because of you. If I do tell anyone, of course, it's about you. I brew Polyljuice Potion that I use to get my way into Weasley's bed, and of course, it's all about you. And now, unless we kill each other tonight, I'm going to tell big bad Lord Voldemort about the fact that you're shagging Weasley, and, of course, the whole fucking conversation is going to be about *You*"   
  


The anger, the hate that had fairly radiated from the other boy ever since Draco had walked into the room were invisible now; not gone, merely buried under the tangible shock that was playing across his clear cut features.   
  


"You. You. Did it *ever* occur to you, Potter, that this was never about you? I don't give a flying fuck about you. I wish you were dead, yes. I've wished that since we met on the train first year."   
  


"I know perfectly well that losing Ron would kill you. And if there was any way--*any* other way of killing you, I would have done it in a second. I wouldn't have waited for Voldemort, you four-eyed freak. I'd have performed Avada Kedavra myself, and laughed while I did it "   
  


Broken glass sparkled on the floor at the feet of the Boy Who Lived. Draco watched him; the words that had been ripping him apart for years finally spilling out. If he didn't say it, now, he was going to draw his wand. And then one of them was going to leave this hall dead.   
  


And Ron would be quick to follow.   
  


"I wasn't lying when I said I never told anyone. I haven't. I never intended to. Wanna know why, Potter?"   
  


Ah. The confidence was starting to creep back into those green eyes, now. That fucking Gryffindor poise that he so despised.   
  


"Why?"   
  


Such an idiotic tone. Cautious, almost bored, even as Potter's eyes tried to bore holes in his skull, spy the secrets of his brain.   
  


"I don't want Ron to die."   
  


A hiss of breath greeted his words, a look of fury passed over the other boy's face like a cloud passing over the sun. A snort of contempt:   
  


"Why the *fuck* would you care whether or not Ron dies, Malfoy?"   
  


His own face flushed deeper at Potter's words; words spilling out of his mouth before he could stop them.   
  


"I care a hell of a lot more then you do, Potter. If it wasn't for me, Weasley would already be dead."   
  
  
  
  
  


******************************************   
  
  
  
  
  


Ooh, Cliffhanger! Sorry! (Please don't kill me) I intended to finish this story up this chapter, but it was getting too long. The next part will continue on from this scene, though. . .Harry or Draco pov, I'm not sure which one. Any suggestions?   
  


(1) Oh, and this was a little plug for Lady Rose's "More then Friends" Harry/Ron site. . .which she hasn't updated in *ages* (Sniffs)   
  


Again, thanks for the reviews from everybody. Next installment should be up. . .sometime this week. Unfortunately, college has dictated quite a few essays for me this week, so I'm kinda iffy on when, exactly. Lousy real life. 


	5. Christmas Eve

Author: Jadea   
  


Disclaimer: Nicht mein.   
  


Dedication: To the crew of two ships, considering this fic has two pairings: The Prince and Pauper and the Best Mate. Ahh, the best of both worlds   
  


Notes: Decided to try Draco again. He's easier to write in confrontations then Harry.   
  


Summary: Chapter five. More of the Potter/Malfoy fight. Revelations, sniping, previous oblique statments explained.   
  
  
  


*********************************************   
  


Red-gold flames flickered, reflected on the lenses of Potter's glasses, concealing his eyes.   
  


A harsh silence descended over the hall after Draco's last words echoed into oblivion; for a moment the only movement was the gentle sway of the ornaments, dangling from the branches of the evergreen Christmas tree.   
  


"W--What do you mean, Malfoy?"   
  


The confidence had bled out of that voice, finally. He may not be able to see Potter's famous eyes, but he could hear his voice just fine. . .stunned, as if Draco had just slapped him.   
  


Actually, knowing Potter, the boy had been expecting a slap more then he had Draco's words.   
  


Damn. He *still* couldn't see the other boys eyes. He hated not being able to read his opponents expression, to see their intentions in their eyes. Not that Potter ever gave away *too* much, but it disgruntled Draco. Of course, nothing ever went the way he wanted to against Potter. Not in quidditch, not in class, not in life. When Draco Malfoy dealt with Harry Potter, he always found the field tipped against him; the game was always rigged. And his--A *Malfoy's*--best effort was never good enough.   
  


He had known, almost from the start of first year, that even if Potter had taken his hand on the train, they would never have been friends. He never could stand being second to anyone.   
  


Which made this entire situation so fucking bitter. And only intensified his hatred for the black haired boy standing in front of him.   
  


"Exactly what I said, "The Boy Who Needs A Hearing Aid."   
  


There. It had worked. Potter had stepped foward, leaving the golden halo of light cast around the Gryffindor Christmas tree, the fiery reflections on his glasses sliding off. Now, Draco had a clear view of those eyes.   
  


Ah. Of course.   
  


Potter didn't believe him. Disbelief. Doubt fairly exuded from the other boy, emblazoned on his forehead like that fucking scar. But that wasn't the only emotion there. Something else was kindling a fire in those green eyes.   
  


The hate was back. Hate and anger and fury; it was obvious the boy was barely restraining himself from leaping foward and throttling Draco, even though that really would have been more Weasley's style.   
  


"I don't like being lied to, Malfoy."   
  


God, he hated Potter. His hands, calloused from quidditch, clenched into fists.   
  


"I'm. Not. Lying. Asshole."   
  


Another step and the grinding sound of shattered glass filled the silence as Harry's boot came down on the remains of the angel oranment Draco had thrown at his feet only moments before.   
  


The space between them narrowed, Potter was less then a foot away, now. That small, bruised mouth that had kissed Ron countless times opened and words of contempt rang in Draco's ears:   
  


"Again, Malfoy. Why would you tell the truth? Why would you give a fuck if Ron lived or died? Why would you try and save him, especially since you know our secret? And when in the *hell* did you ever save Ron's life? What sick little fantasy of yours is this?"   
  


Never before in his entire life had he wanted to perform an Unforgiveable on someone so badly. Not during the Second Task, not even last Christmas. Fury made his head ring, and he wondered if his face was flushed. He had been trained, as far back as he could remember, that feeling anger, hatred, fury was not wrong. It was *revealing* them that made you weak, that allowed others to judge your movements. But, by Merlin, his control was slipping, eroding with every syllable that came out of Potter's smirking mouth. He wanted him dead.   
  


He'd wanted him dead . .for years.   
  


Potter, dead. . .the cause of, and solution to, all his problems.   
  


For the first time at Hogwarts, for the first time he could remember, Draco realized he was dangerously close to losing all restraint, to allowing his fury and his hatred to control him. And, for the first time in his life, Draco allowed his emotions to rule him.   
  


The words spilled forth in a torrent. He couldn't stop them now if he tried.   
  


"Does last Christmas ring a bell, Potter? Deatheaters in Hogwarts, for the sole purpose of kidnapping Ron? Who actually *got* him, because you were off moping somewhere? Deatheaters under the direct order of Voldemort that took Ron right out of the library, and almost completely out of Hogwarts before they set off the wards? Did you ever care to hear about *how* they set off the wards? *Why* the password wouldn't work for them? Or were you two busy feeling guilty because it was your fault that they went after Ron in the first place?"   
  


His last words struck hard, Potter winced sharply, a lock of glistening black hair falling down, half covering the lightening bolt scar. 

"I saw you, Potter. I saw both of you, when you *finally* arrived in the hospital wing. After Dumbeldore and Snape arrived and the Death Eaters were defeated, that's when the Boy Who Lived showed up."   
  


Just the memory made his fists clench, his lip curl. He had seen the entire thing, the joyous reunion of The Boy Who Lived and his best friend, standing in the corner, hidden under the invisibility cloak he had been wearing for hours. . .   
  


____________________________________________   
  
  
  


He wasn't running. He was *flying*   
  


Harry Potter sprinted faster then anyone he'd seen in his entire life, stopping only when he skidded through the door of the Hosptial Wing. Harsh, gasping breaths echoed through the room; those famous green eyes darted everywhere at once, stopping only when they settled upon the red headed figure lying on the bed three cots away.   
  


Madame Pomfrey had left a few minutes ago, reporting Weasley's status to Dumbeldore and to check on the captured Death Eaters. As far as Potter knew, there were only two people in the ward, and the boy made no attempt to hide the expression of anguish, so obvious, that settled on his features.   
  


Softly, tentatively, moving in a way Draco had never seen Potter walk before, the boy tiptoed toward the figure in the bed, breath echoing through the room. A soft, choked whisper:   
  


"R-Ron?"   
  


Weasley had been asleep for about twenty minutes but at Potter's voice he stirred, muttering something about chocolate before opening one bleary, confused blue eye and fixing it on Potter.   
  


"Harry? Are you alright?"   
  


And Draco Malfoy saw the most incredible thing.   
  


Potter. . .crumpled. The savior of the wizarding world, the teenage wonderboy, the TriWiazrd Tournament Champion and great enemy of Lord Voldemort himself went down without a punch, practically collapsing on the bed at Weasley's side.   
  


It was really no more then what he'd suspected. . .but it stung, still, to see Potter's hands slide into that red-gold hair, to witness the most breathtaking kiss he'd ever seen. And the fervent exclamations that spilled from Potter's normally taciturn lips, words of guilt, and anguish, and fear. All words that were met with reassurances from Weasley, and smiles, and hot, furious kisses that soon had both boys panting.   
  


Silently, Invisible in the shadows, in his cloak, Draco Malfoy turned away and left the hospital wing.   
  


__________________________________________________   
  


With a slight shake of his head, he expelled the memory. Nothing was going to stop him. The poisen had been building up in him for years now. If he didn't release it, it would kill him.   
  


"You didn't want to think about it, did you, Potter? The fact that it was *your* fault they went after Ron in the first place. You just ignored it, and shagged him. Such a sweet reunion, really."   
  


If Draco had lost control, Potter was nearing the end of his restraint as well. All confidence had been wiped off of that face, only hatred remained. A fine flush had begun to creep into the dark-haired boys cheeks and he was shaking, ever so slightly.   
  


"You really are pathetic. You know that, Malfoy? Congratualtions. You used Polyjuice Potion to turn into me so that you could shag Ron and now you're trying to tell me you saved Ron's life. How? By *fucking* him? You are so full of it. . ."   
  


"You still don't get it, do you, Potter? I asked you, just now. 'Did you even care to hear about how or why they set off the wards?' Why the ancient password Voldemort had given them didn't work?"   
  


Those green eyes blinked: once, twice.   
  


"Did you ask Dumbeldore? Did he tell you anything? He didn't, did he? Ever wonder why? Because he couldn't tell you why the DeathEaters set off the wards. He wouldn't be able to tell you why the password didn't work. Because only one person in the whole fucking castle knows that, and it isn't Weasley."   
  


Hard. Hard jade green eyes, suddenly assessing him carefully, re-evaluating him. Still filled with hate, those eyes. But watching him warily.   
  


"Why?"   
  


Eyes cold, he stared back.   
  


"Do you know what Voldemort does to his captives, Potter? He kills mudbloods. . .just snuffs them."   
  


Ah. The words had an affect; a quick wince, a flash of pain passed over Potter's face.   
  


"But those he regards as traitors, Potter. . .Purebloods who deny their true place. . .he doesn't kill them rightaway. He tortures them. Magically, non-magically. He doesn't just hurt them. He *breaks* them. Then he lends them out to the rest of his death eaters, to do whatever they want."   
  


Cold. The candles in the Great Hall cast even less warmth then they did light. Potter shivered, Draco felt gooseflesh breaking out across his arms.   
  


"It was my fathers plan. Enter Hogwarts, seize Ronald Weasley, best friend of Harry Potter. If you can't take Harry Potter out of Hogwarts because of Dumbeldore's special charms. . .why, you just have to get him to leave of his own free will. And what better bait then his best mate?"   
  


The other boy was breathing heavily, now, echoing through the room, gusts of breath causing the candles on the table to flicker. Eyes closed, fists clenched. This was ripping him up.   
  


Good.   
  


He hoped it hurt like hell.   
  


"Voldemort agreed. A secret plan, known only to his closest, most loyal death-eaters."   
  


He spat the words out, unwilling to mask the disgust in his own voice. He remembered his fathers sick glee when Voldemort had approved the plan. . .   
  


"But the plan failed. The ancient password Voldemort gave them would not work, not when they tried to get out. Instead, it tripped the wards. Caught, all three of them."   
  


Potter had opened his eyes again but the expression in them was shrouded, unreadable.   
  


"One of the death eaters did get away. The first to trip the wards; he fled before the others could follow, barely escaped Snape. I didn't think he'd be stupid enough to try and break into Hogwarts, but, then again, my father always hated the Weasley's with a passion."   
  


"I watched him. It was quite funny, actually. . .my father fled like a frightened rabbit immediately after the wards went off. He didn't have time to take Ron with him, and he knew it. So he just ran."   
  


Voldemort had not been pleased. Lucius Malfoy had paid an extremely high price for his actions--more for leaving the hostage then abandoning the other death eaters to Snape and Dumbeldore. His fathers rank had descended abruptly with the failure of his plan. . .but Draco, who had argued against the capture, had seen his own star rise rapidly.   
  


Still, those green eyes stared at him. Stray strands of jet-black hair fell over the famous forehead, but the other boy's face was implacable, carved of stone. No matter how much Draco loathed the boy--and he hated Harry Potter more then anything else in the world--he had to admit that the boy was almost as adept at controlling his emotions as he himself was. A harsh skill to learn, perhaps, but a necassary one.   
  


Reluctantly, invisible weights dragging his feet, Potter stepped foward, glass grinding to a powder beneath the soles of his boots. One step foward, two and suddenly they were less then a foot apart again, standing in the golden light of the Gryffindor Christmas tree.   
  


Inches apart with no shadows between them, he could see every expression the other boy allowed to show on his face.   
  


Incredulity. Shock.   
  


A whisper of a question, so soft Draco had to strain to hear it, fell from the other boys lips.   
  


"Why?"   
  


A shudder was twisting its way up his spine, he clenched his teeth together, tightly. That was one question he would never answer--not if he had a cauldron full of veritaserum running through his veins.   
  


"Why, Draco?"   
  


Those green eyes swept over his face; he could practically feel their weight as the searched him, looking for his weakness, trying to divine his thoughts. Unable to stop himself, Draco let out a small snort. If Lord Voldemort himself couldn't see his mind, there was no way that Harry fucking Potter was going to.   
  


"Do you lo--"   
  


"Because I hate you."   
  


It was almost comical, really. The way the other boy froze, the four letter word suspended permenantly on the tip of his tounge. A hot spike of anger ran lanced through Draco's head. How dare he. How *dare* he. That four eyed freak, standing there with that expression in his eyes. . .   
  


"I hate you, Potter. I fucking hate you. I always will. Nothing, nothing in the world would make me happier then the knowledge that you are dead, and that your corpse is rotting away in a field some where, your head Lord Voldemort's table centerpiece. I would give everything I own to see you suffer and die." 

In a voice he barely recognized as his own, he struggled, choking the words out, desperate to expel them before they ripped him apart.   
  


"I hate you. So. Much."   
  


"But. . .I. Don't. Hate. Ron."   
  


He could feel the shiver working its way deeper into his body now. The way his throat constricted, practically strangling his own words. And the sick flush of shame. For allowing his feelings to show. For telling *Potter* of all people.   
  


God. The Hall was so cold.   
  


He closed his eyes, a memory washing over him like a breath of fresh air. Yesterday, the Gryffindor 7th year boys room had been icy cold, but it had been so warm, so *hot* in Neville Longbottom's bed. . .   
  


"Do you fuck *everyone* you don't hate, Malfoy?"   
  


His head jerked up, the wam memory slapped away. Potter's green eyes were sparkling dangerously, a shade darker then their usual emerald color. His own hatred, never subdued for long, rose to meet it.   
  


"Is that what this is all about to you, Potter? Me shagging Weasley? Me taking what was yours? Are you *deaf*, or have you just been hanging around with Longbottom too much?"   
  


"If it was sex, I could have had him years ago, willing or not. This isn't about sex, Potter. This isn't even really about me. It's about you and Weasley."   
  


Hard green eyes narrowed, fists clenching tighter. Those pretty lips began to curl into a familiar sneer.   
  


"If you think you're going to blackmail me into leaving Ron--"   
  


"You are so stupid."   
  


He hissed the words, his own eyes narrowing, glaring at the other boy. The idiot still didn't understand. After everything--after the Second task, after last Christmas, after yesterday.   
  


"You knew what would happen. You *knew* Voldemort would be after Weasley the instant he found out you were fucking. But you didn't care. Because you're Harry Potter, the hero. The Boy Who Lived, the All Powerful. You thought that because you were *you*, it would be Ok. Others could die, but not you, and not your best mate. Because you love him."   
  


For the longest time, his words met with no reaction; Potter was as silent and still as the stones underneath their feet.   
  


"I hate you, Malfoy. I always have--I always will. Now more then ever."   
  


The other boy wasn't looking at him; the other seeker's fingers played idly with another ornament, a gold lion winking in the candlelight.   
  


"Do you know why I hate you so much? Even before you tricked your way into my lovers bed?"   
  


A small smirk tugged at Draco's lips; he tucked a slender strand of white-gold hair behind his right ear.   
  


"Every hero needs an arch-villian to keep them on their toes, Potter."   
  


Hero-boy ignored his words, eyes and hand continuing their examination of the golden Gryffindor lion.   
  


"There is nothing. . .*nothing* good in you. Nothing noble, nothing innocent. And because of that, you see nothing but the most despicable sick, twisted motivations for everything."   
  


Finally, some emotion had begun to creep back into those words. Anger and disbelief colouring them.   
  


"Do you honestly belief that I would risk Ron's life just so I could fuck him? I. . .love him. He's the best thing in my life. And you tell your Master, that if he ever takes him from me, it will be the last thing he ever does."   
  


"I will kill him."   
  


The calloused hand released the ornament, which swayed softly on the branch. Eyes the shade of the evergreen tree fixed on his own, resolve fathoms deep in their gaze.   
  


"I will kill him. But first, Malfoy. . .I will kill you. I will not lose Ron, not to either of you."   
  


"Do you know what it's like to know there is *only* one good thing, one warm spot, in your entire life, and that you could lose it any minute? Do you, Malfoy?"   
  


A sour taste washed through his mouth but he answered the furious question as cooly as only a Malfoy could.   
  


"No, Potter. I don't. I wish I knew."   
  


A strangled expression tumbled from the other boys mouth; for a minute his jaw hung open, eyes gaping at Draco, he looked uncannily like his best friend.   
  


"You really are Satan, aren't you, Malfoy? If you enjoy my pain so much. . .why haven't you told? Why haven't you watched your delightful little saga play out to the end?"   
  


The words spilled out of his mouth, sounding on the air before he could call them back.   
  


"You just. Dont. Get. It. Do you, Potter?"   
  


//I wish I knew how it felt. . .to have *one* good thing in my life.//   
  


Once again, The Boy Who Lived feigned casualness, eyes sweeping the hall, looking everywhere except where Draco stood. "Maybe not. Maybe I don't get it, Malfoy."   
  


A cruel, baiting tone was in that voice, seeking blood. It was not a tone he was used to hearing in that voice, and it raised the hairs on the back of his neck. The smugness of a cat toying with a mouse. . .   
  


"Tell me, Malfoy. . . what part of yesterday did you enjoy the most? Was it when you kissed him, and he dragged his fingers through your--oh, excuse me--*my* hair? Maybe when you bit him on the neck and his entire body arched up, pressing against yours--no, mine? Or. . .was it when you were actually fucking? Was that the best part for you? I bet it was. When you were both naked and you were thrusting into him and he kept moaning your name, over and over and over again..."   
  


A smile, small and bitter but genuine, lit up those emerald eyes.   
  


"But. . .it wasn't *your* name he kept crying, was it? It wasn't "Draco!" was it? Did you try to stop him? Try to shut him up, when he kept calling my name? I bet you did."   
  


Pain was shooting through his jaw, he only just realized he was clenching his mouth so tightly shut his teeth were grinding against each other. Condescension fairly dripped from the other boys tongue; he fought the urge to draw his wand and simply end it, here.   
  


It was too much. Too much to take, too much to lose. After everything. . .Potter was too blinded by his hate to see, to acknowledge that Draco was right.   
  


"I will never give him up, Malfoy. You understand? You may have fucked him once, but you'll never get him. Not as long as I live."   
  


Unbidden, a short chuckle forced its way out of Draco's mouth. "That may not be a very long time, Potter."   
  


A short, cold stare was his only response. "Probably not, Malfoy. But if you tell anyone what you know about Ron and me, I'll make sure Voldemort knows you betrayed him, that you've known for months about Ron and I and didn't say a thing."   
  


His own feet swept him foward until they were inches apart, noses almost touching. Close enough to reach out and strangle the taunting words that were issuing from the mouth Ron loved...   
  


"Do you really think it would matter, Potter?" His own words came out in a hiss, the contempt in them obvious. "Do you really think he'd care? If I brought him Weasley today, or better yet, the famous Harry Potter, do you really think he'd care that I took my time? Why would he believe you, anyway?"   
  


A swift shadow of doubt passed over the eyes that were less then inches from his own.   
  


"Face it, Potter. I may have fucked Weasley. . .but you're the one who's been screwed. You can't tell anyone about me. If you do, you run the risk of betraying your secret little romance. And then, Weasley's life won't be worth two sickles."   
  


He could feel it; the slow return of the confidence, the control that he had lost earlier that evening. He welcomed its strength, even as it chilled him.   
  


Ron loved chess, Draco knew. For some reason, the knowledge made him smile, even as he kept his eyes on the unblinking boy standing inches from him.   
  


This was an Impasse, and they both knew it. Neither side, white nor black, could move without the risk of losing everything. But neither was willing to back down. Dimly, Draco realized his ears were ringing, that he was holding his breath. Perhaps it would end here. All or nothing, once and for all...   
  


The loud sound of heavy footfalls reached their ears scarcely seconds before the doors to the Great Hall swung wide and another figure entered, words spilling from his mouth even as he walked through the door:   
  


"Harry! Guess what? McGonnagal actually let me off early! Only 'cause its Christmas Eve, but still! She never lets any--"   
  


The words couldn't have stopped more suddenly if someone had chopped them off with a knife.   
  


"Malfoy! What are you doing here?!"   
  


Whatever had been building between him and Potter broke, shattering at their feet.   
  


But not over, no.   
  


Slowly, Draco turned and looked at Weasley, surveying him cooly. Ignoring the small spike of pleasure that went through him at the sight of the redhead, at the knowledge that Ron had acknowledged his presence before Harrys. He continued to stare at the red head, not speaking, enjoying the flush of color in those freckled cheeks as Weasley noticed his unabashed stare.   
  
  
  


With an easy grace Potter turned away and strode past Draco, deliberately bumping the blond boys' shoulder as he walked down the dais, stopping when he reached the tall red head.   
  


"Don't worry about it, Ron. It's nothing."   
  


Evidently Weasley thought it was something to worry about; blue eyes narrowed, watching Potter closely before flickering up to catch Draco. The boy obviously remembered him as the cause of Potter's discomfort earlier that evening, and the ever present fire in them flared up.   
  


It was obvious the red head was struggling hard not to argue with his boyfriend, he shook his fiery head disbelievingly, biting down on his lower lip.   
  


"Come on, Ron. Let's go back to the Common Room. We have some presents to open, remember?"   
  


Not even another suspicious glance at Draco could quell the rising excitement in Weasley's eyes. Draco clenched his fists, feeling the smooth wood of his wand press into his palm. He knew that look, had seen it in those blue eyes only yesterday.   
  


Evidently Potter and Weasley were going to do more then open presents tonight.   
  


He didn't move, watching as Potter tugged Weasley on the arm, pulling him to the door of the Great hall, hand remaining on Ron's wrist until the taller boy had stepped through the door, Draco's catching one last glimpse of his red-gold hair shining in the dim candlelight.   
  


Finally, dark green eyes swept the length of the candlelit hall, stopping only when they settled on Draco, standing alone in the light of the Gryffindor Christmas tree.   
  


Soft words, spoken just before he exited the hall, taunting Draco's ears, just like the thin smile on Potter's face.   
  


"I hope you enjoyed yourself yesterday, Malfoy. Because you're never going to get it again."   
  


"Merry Christmas."   
  
  
  
  
  


***************************************   
  
  
  
  
  


Hoooray! Midterms are over! My hands arent cramping anymore! No more essay tests for a while. But this fic is finished; I have thought of a pseudo-sequal. But I needed to wrap this fic up and work on my "A Deal With The Devil" universe. And I didn't want Draco to be 100% evil in this fic, even with what he did. . .Draco's purely evil in my "ADWD" stories, and I just wanted to get rid of any sympathy I had for him before I torture the poor boy for my next couple fics.   
  


Coming soon, to a fic near you: Draco's view on "ADWD"   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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